


Zephyr

by liketolaugh



Series: Countdowns [1]
Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Angst, DGM Hallow Countdown, Gen, Prostitution mention, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-18 22:11:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7332592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liketolaugh/pseuds/liketolaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DGM Hallow countdown: Sometimes the end just sneaks up on you, and you don’t see it coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1: Deception

Komui has a cabinet.

Okay, well, Komui has a lot of cabinets. Filing cabinets, specifically. As Chief, filing cabinets are kind of part of the job description. His office is walled with them, and so is his room.

This particular cabinet is hidden in a corner of his room. Komui doesn’t often go to his room; he does most of his sleeping in his office or in the lab. Or not at all. The cabinet is dented on one side, and rust smatters the other; it’s _that_ old. The bottom drawer doesn’t even open – he has to access it from the drawer above. By removing the above drawer entirely. On top of that, it was half blocked by his bed, and about six inches of scattered papers denied access to the floor anywhere within three feet of it.

This cabinet was, of course, the ideal place to keep documents he didn’t want anyone else to see.

Before the Order, Komui had never had secrets. Well, almost never – his last secret, as he recalled, had been the engineering book he’d kept under his bed, until his father had found it and scolded him for not saying anything. There had never been a _need._

There was a need now.

Before, there had been family and honesty and a rice field under a far-too-hot sun. Now, there are politics, Central moles, and people to look after. There is intrigue and conflict of interest and competition with higher stakes than Komui cared to think about.

Komui has a cabinet full of files no one needs to see, and he remembers every single one of them.

He keeps one drawer full of mission reports taking place in areas where members of the Order had family. One of these contains the report of the akumification (and subsequent destruction) of the town where Reever used to live, and Komui wishes he’d never read it.

Two contain reports of lapses – times when exorcists forgot themselves, forgot what they were doing or where they were, times when they ‘endangered the mission’ (endangered themselves) and became liabilities. Komui doesn’t like to think about those either. He looks through them anyway, regularly, throwing out those that incriminate exorcists who are already dead. He needs the room, because new reports are always coming in.

Another has the discipline records of the exorcists and the scientists both. For some reason, they can never be found, so the higher-ups have to rely on anecdotes and memory to determine how often a given employee has been injudicious. Every time he is given a new disciplinary slip, he swears to keep track of it this time.

Komui feels sick when he thinks about it.

The very bottom drawer houses a variety of records detailing old experiments; Komui stored them there in the hopes that they would be forgotten. At least, forgotten to those who for some _godforsaken_ reason thought they were good ideas.

He hides his Komurin blueprints, too, in the front of the top drawer.

Sometimes Komui thinks about burning the contents of that cabinet. (Except the blueprints, of course.) It would be safer that way, after all. But no. No, there was always a chance that he could need them, and he would not be reckless. Not here, not when so many were counting on him.

No one had counted on him, before. Not really.

Some days the responsibility pressed in on him, waking him up in a cold sweat, like so many others in Headquarters. Some days he didn’t wake up, waking up at his normal time with a lingering feeling of despair and regret. Some days he didn’t sleep, and sketched bad rabbits late into the night.

Coffee was his best friend. Really. And Lenalee was a godsend for learning how to make such wonderful, glorious coffee. (Lenalee was a godsend in general.)

Komui’s office was piled high with papers – mission reports and bills and status updates – and that was a form of hiding, too, the compulsive sort that was disorganized and pointless, not the calm efficacy that compelled him to pick out what needed hiding the _most._ No one wanted to pick through a messy pile of papers that had been scattered on the floor for God knew how long.

(Including Komui. Sometimes paperwork that needed to be done ended up on the ground too. Oops.)

Komui learned to lie, learned to tell when others were lying – he knew exactly who the moles in each department were, and he knew to send them where they’d learn what was okay for them to learn and nothing more. Just enough to keep them from being suspicious. (He’d gotten good at learning what intel was important and what wasn’t. Gotten good at fooling people.)

He learned to smile and sleep and sketch and dramatize, to keep the attention where they wanted it, to frustrate the Central agents (not the moles) to distraction until they forgot what they came for and just wanted out, and he learned to sleep at night with things no one else could know lurking in his head.

Komui never used to keep secrets. Now he has a filing cabinet full of them, half-hidden at the foot of his bed and surrounded in a carpet of meaningless paper debris.


	2. Day 2: Persecution

Allen fucking Walker was a goddamn _menace to society._

Well, technically, Cross supposed that really, society was a menace to Allen Walker. But he was in a bad mood at the moment, having spent the last hour keeping fucking _thugs_ from getting at his stupid apprentice, and he was not feeling charitable in the least.

That was probably what motivated him to tie up said thugs and throw them into a dumpster. Which he then closed. It was definitely his bad mood at being inconvenienced, and not vengefulness for the threats they’d made against his stupid, _stupid_ apprentice.

Cross hadn’t noticed this before, when Allen was an adult more-or-less Cross’ own age, before he was a tiny kid who Cross was responsible for, but… God _damn._ Allen fucking Walker attracted every ill-natured asshole within a five mile radius.

And it was a _pain in the goddamn ass._

Sure, Cross didn’t bother with a lot of them. Allen wasn’t a damn shrinking violet, or a delicate flower of any sort, Cross knew that. It wasn’t obvious to people who hadn’t known Allen before, but even under the mask, Allen was a feisty little fucker.

Further evidence toward the ‘menace to society’ claim.

Besides, Allen had probably _always_ attracted assholes, which meant he’d been dealing with them his whole life, which meant he knew how, and Cross did not have to surrender his wine to intervene.

But _damn,_ some of these people had it out for Allen, and Allen only knew why about half the time. Sometimes letting them go was more trouble than taking them out, Cross figured, and _that_ was why he bothered. Obviously.

So society was a menace to both him _and_ Allen. Clearly.

Fuck his _life._

And the kid’s life, too, while he was at it.

…This was why Cross was an alcoholic.

Cross had been surprised, at first, at this unfortunate tendency of Allen’s. Being attacked by one thug in a given day, that wasn’t a huge surprise, given Cross’ personal habits. _Three_ in a day was a little unnerving. _Eight_ in a _week_ was downright alarming. More so when it wasn’t yet Thursday.

Allen was not surprised. Allen bristled at each one and then smoothed his mask down into the smoothest configuration he could muster, and usually chased them off if Cross hadn’t already threatened them with Judgement.

It wasn’t a problem, really, when Allen was healthy. Allen was usually healthy, thank God – Cross wasn’t sure how he would’ve been able to deal if the kid was _sickly_ on top of everything else. (Then again, if they kid was sickly, he’d’ve probably been dead by now.) When Allen was healthy, he could take care of his own shit.

On the other hand, Allen got injured a fair amount. New exorcists always did.

The first time Allen went out alone while injured, he came back _more_ injured.

Cross was _pissed._ (He’d tracked the culprits down, tied them up, and dumped them into a (sadly shallow) river. Served them fucking right.)

Allen didn’t seem to think anything of it (probably because of the above-mentioned lifelong infliction) but Cross sure as hell did. It wasn’t improving his opinion of fate, or God, or any of the higher powers, because they clearly had it out for the kid for no damn reason.

Maybe they were part of the asshole attraction.

Cross pondered that for a while as he wandered back to the inn. The kid was there, fast asleep like a sane person, on the second bed that had surprisingly been available.

Come to think of it, possibly Cross was also part of the asshole attraction.

Cross stripped his boots off and flopped back onto the mattress, frowning at the ceiling with his hands clasped behind his head.

Well, shit, some situation he’d gotten himself into. No lady, no drink – what, was he going to have to _think_ himself to sleep tonight? That never ended well.

But he didn’t feel like getting back up, so thinking himself to sleep it was. He transferred his gaze from the ceiling back to the kid, who was curled up on his side, cheek pressed to the pillow and mouth open slightly, arms tucked in close to his chest and half-covered by a thin blanket. It was _nauseatingly_ cute. Cross was nauseated.

_Menace to society._

Cross didn’t see why Allen attracted so many assholes, honestly. He was the sort of kid who would normally get _coddled_ to death by the _antitheses_ of the assholes, and who the assholes avoided because they would feel bad if they so much as raised their voices to him.

But no. Instead, assholes everywhere.

_What the fuck._

…Cross blamed Neah. Neah was _definitely_ more of a menace to society than society was to him.

Satisfied with his conclusion, Cross closed his eyes and went to sleep.


	3. Day 3: Famine

Possibly the only thing Red hated more than not being fed was _refusing food._

It went against every instinct the seven-year-old had. He didn’t remember much about the orphanage, way back when, and he didn’t remember what had made him run away (at _three fucking years old,_ what kind of idiot _was_ he) but he did remember the persistent clench of hunger, the fear of starvation that had stalked him for the two years that it took him to find a job at the circus.

He remembered what it felt like to be hungry – was still feeling it, in fact – and he’d do almost anything to avoid that. _Almost._

Except Red had seen the cook slipping poison into his food, _again,_ and Red wasn’t having any of that, not today, not ever again. (Once was more than enough. Twice had been _goddamn idiotic.)_

So. Food refused. No more poison, problem solved.

Except Red was _fucking hungry._

“Al-len!”

Red rolled his eyes and glanced dubiously over at Mana, who was waving at him from where he was eating under the tree that marked Allen’s grave.

It had been a week since Allen’s death, and the weird clown was still greeting him like an old friend and calling him by the dog’s name. Red was starting to get suspicious thoughts about the guy’s sanity, but hell. He was at least pretty sure that he wasn’t going to try to kill him.

Which was more than Red could say for the cook. _Asshole._

Mana continued waving like an idiot, and Red rolled his eyes again, gave a put-upon sigh, and hid any happiness he _might_ have felt as he ambled over to Mana and plopped down undignifiedly beside him.

“What?” he asked bluntly.

“Hi, Allen!” Mana said, blisteringly cheerful. There was a full plate of food on his lap, which Red ignored steadfastly. Mana wasn’t stuck here, so they had to feed him if they wanted him around, and Mana was more useful to them than Red was, so they _did_ want him around. “I didn’t see you today!”

“I was doin’ _chores,”_ Red snapped, already annoyed.

“Are you hungry?” Mana inquired innocently.

“No,” Red snarled, scooting back a little.

“Oh, you must have eaten, then!”

“Don’t be fucking stupid!” Red crossed his arms and looked away, scowling. He felt a thick finger prod clumsily at his cheekbone and swatted at it with his good hand. “Leave me alone and eat your fucking dinner!” God, this guy.

“If you haven’t eaten, you’re hungry,” Mana explained to him patiently, like _Red_ was the slow one. Red glanced over and scowled at him. “Did they forget to give you food?”

If Red explained what had _actually_ happened, Mana’s head would probably explode. He seemed that level of naïve. “Yeah.”

“Oh!” Mana smiled brightly. Did he ever stop smiling? Didn’t he feel like an idiot? Didn’t his _cheeks hurt?_ “That’s okay, Allen! You can share mine! Here!”

He thrust an entire roll at Red’s face. Red stared at it like it was poisoned, which actually, he was now wondering if it was, and then tilted his head to frown at Mana like he was stupid, which he probably was.

“You’re offering me _your_ food?” he asked dubiously.

“Because you don’t have any!” Mana explained, smile not so much as wavering.

Red stared at him for a few moments longer, and then, slowly, wondering warily if Mana was about to snatch it back and make fun of Red for being stupid, reached for the bread. Mana waited patiently, and then finally, Red took it, pulling it back so it was close to his chest.

Mana beamed at him, apparently pleased, and looked down, starting to dig into the food. At least the _rest_ of it wasn’t poisoned, even if that didn’t guarantee the roll wasn’t.

But Red was hungry. And Mana probably wasn’t sane enough to figure out that Red deserved poison yet.

Red bit into the roll, chewed, and swallowed. When nothing happened, he, too, dug into it, finally admitting to himself _just_ how hungry he was.

He barely had time to miss the roll after it was gone before Mana thrust a chicken leg at him, and this time, Red didn’t hesitate before taking it, though he did very nearly snatch it.

He _did_ hesitate, though, before he took a bite, silver eyes lingering on Mana, who didn’t seem to be thinking anything of the food he was giving up.

“…Thanks,” Red said at last.

Mana paused to reach over and ruffle his hair, smiling cheerfully. “Of course!”


	4. Day 4: Death

When he was a child, Zokalo used to kill small animals for fun.

It started as a way to help around the house. His mother’s clients didn’t like to see bugs when they were over, and he’d never had a father. So he looked for beetles and spiders and flies, and he squashed them and threw them out.

It _fascinated_ him. They were so small, and they scurried away from him very quickly. Then when he squashed them, when their little bodies crunched under his fat finger, they’d stop moving altogether. They wouldn’t react no matter how much he flicked at them. It was as if they’d never been trying to get away from him at all. Like they’d forgotten.

He wondered what else would stop moving if he was big enough to squash them. What it would take for his mother to stop moving. For Zokalo to stop moving.

Then when he was older, he took on bigger animals. Rats were as bad as bugs, but he hadn’t been able to do anything about them as a little kid. Snakes, Zokalo used to throw things at, until he hit one and realized they stopped moving, too.

The first animal he killed just for fun was a bird. Its skull crunched just like a spider’s corpse, except much louder and harder, and it was as messy as a rat. Zokalo had to clean up before nightfall, so that his mother’s client-of-the-night wouldn’t see.

And it was _exciting._

He replayed it in his mind, again and again – the fluttering wings, the frantic squawking like a rat’s squeals, and the way it ­– _crunched –_ and suddenly went still and silent.

Because of Zokalo. Because he’d wanted to.

He grew up, and the animals got bigger. A possum. The next door neighbor’s cat. That stray dog that hung around and begged for scraps (of which there were none, anyway).

He hadn’t meant to progress to humans, really. That was trouble-with-the-law territory, and Zokalo didn’t really want to deal with that sort of shit.

Then he killed his mother, and found he wasn’t really sorry. It was a good change, in fact – instead of her having power over him, he had power over her. When she stopped struggling, he threw his head back, and laughed and laughed.

That was the only time Zokalo moved on after a kill. Everyone knew he hated his mother. Wouldn’t take a genius to figure out why she’d been found dead in her own home, with her blood splattered on the wall and her skull bashed in.

In the next town, he got a day job as a butcher. He thought it was funny. Too bad no one else would, if everything went right.

A month after he arrived, he realized that he missed the thrill of the kill. The power. He missed the feeling of someone struggling under his hands, and he missed the jolt of realization in his chest when they went still.

He wanted more.

Soon after, Madness claimed his first victim.

That was his name, Madness, when they realized (five kills in, the losers) that there was a serial killer on the loose. It was hard, he’d grant them – he used a different weapon every time, chose random victims, but he almost always crushed the skull. He liked the crunch. It reminded him of the spiders.

Madness claimed seventeen victims before he got caught.

Zokalo _wouldn’t_ have gotten caught, if he hadn’t been followed down the alley as he stalked his seventeenth victim, if the akuma hadn’t emerged from its skin. But he knew, the moment that the creature emerged from the woman’s skin, that the tables were about to turn. That Zokalo would lose his hard-won power.

Zokalo wasn’t about to let that happen, though. Nothing and no one would be stronger than him, as long as he had something to say about it.

And then, as the akuma bore down on him – a wagon nearby lost two of its wheels, and suddenly, Zokalo was stronger than ever, and the akuma fell before him.

He barely had ten seconds to relish it before the authorities finally caught him, but when they dragged him away, he was laughing again.

His newfound power thrummed through him for the entire five days it took the Order to find him, even as he’d been kept separate from his weapon, and after that, he just got stronger, and stronger. Strong enough to take down hoards of akuma, of things stronger than humans.

After taking down akuma, taking down something known to murder whole cities of humans, Zokalo wasn’t sure he could go back to killing humans again.

What did it prove, after all, to kill something as weak as a human?


	5. Day 5: Matyrology

“Please,” Neah says, with his golden eyes focused on Allen’s silver.

Allen stares at him for a long time, expression unreadable, and then he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and looks away.

“I’ll think about it,” he replies at last, and he means it.

* * *

Allen doesn’t seal the deal until he sees Neah dying on the ground, his sword half-held in his hand, looking dazed and exhausted and like he was in more pain than Allen cared to contemplate.

Allen didn’t have to to ask why it had to be him. He was one of the only ones left; Mana had gone mad and Maria was dead, which left Cross and Allen. Cross was their mole in the Order, so it had to be Allen who gave up his body for Neah to go on, to end the war at last.

“I will preserve your memory, keep it hidden,” he swore to his friend. “For decades if necessary. Until you awaken.” He clenched his fists, fear and worry translating into familiar anger. “I promise!”

And Neah – dazed, broken, bloody – smiled. “Thank you, old friend,” he murmured.

* * *

It wasn’t until a week after Neah’s death that the implications of that promise hit Allen.

Allen was twenty-three years old at the time. A little older than Neah himself, but still young. Very young. He’d had ambitions of his own, once, though he could barely remember them now – he’d wanted to succeed Bookman, to become a witness to and a recorder of history. He’d wanted to meet people, to know them, to watch history play out before him.

He’d given that up, he realized, long before he made the promise to harbor Neah’s memory – years ago, back when he started to invest himself in the outcome of the war, when he began to scheme with Cross and Maria and Neah to end it. When he began to _interfere._

Allen, he realized, had long ago chosen to melt back into the ink on the page.

It figured that, so soon after that, he would realize that he was going to die.

Allen had always, of course, known that he would die. It was a part of living. But to give up his life for another, for the sake of ending the war- To care so thoroughly that he would not only put himself at risk, but _swear_ to die without so much as a whimper of resistance-

He could not longer be a Bookman.

He disappeared. One did not simply quit being a Bookman, even a Bookman Apprentice, but Bookman would not look for him, as long as he did not say goodbye. He would move on, find a new apprentice, a new successor, as he was bid. To search would imply attachment, and Bookman did not get attached.

The definition of a matyr was, essentially, one who died for one’s beliefs.

Cross did not look for him. He was the only other one left, now – just the two of them working against thousands of years of strife. Waiting on Neah, now. Biding their time.

Allen spent most of the time thinking – working to survive just a little longer. At first, he thought that it wouldn’t take Neah very long at all to reawaken. He woke up every day surprised, thinking that the previous had been his last, that this one surely would be.

It never was.

Allen waited years to feel the creep of Neah, to feel Neah closer to him than he had ever been, too close, _suffocating-_ But he never came. He never woke. He slept.

Allen wished that the waiting would end.

Allen didn’t regret the decision to promise Neah his body – not once. But he regretted other things. He regretted not saying goodbye to Bookman. He regretted not staying, sometimes. He regretted all the people he wouldn’t meet, all the things he wouldn’t do, wouldn’t see- regretted all the friends he would never make, the friends he _had_ made and now missed, the people he would never see again.

Once or twice, he considered seeking out Cross, just to talk. But both of them would regret _that,_ he was sure. There was no going back now. Not now that Allen would die for their cause. Now that their numbers were dwindling.

Even after the immediacy faded, Allen woke each morning with the cold clutch of death wrapped around his heart, and even if Neah wasn’t there yet, it was suffocating. Even if Neah wasn’t there yet, Allen was dying.

By the time Neah arrived, there wouldn’t be any work left to do. Allen would already be dead, and Neah would simply have to step in to take his place.

 _It was,_ Allen decided one day, with a morbid smile on his lips as he lifted a tasteless cup of tea to his lips, _an ideal situation._

In the end, Allen’s last thought was that he hoped to a God he’d never believed in that Neah could pull through. Against all odds, Neah had to pull through.

This couldn’t be for nothing.


	6. End: New World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I headcanon Alma as trans female, which is why female pronouns are used.

She woke up alone, submerged in four feet of liquid, in a four foot three hole.

First she gasped, and then she choked, and then she shoved herself up, and her head broke the surface of the fluid, letting her gasp for air through the soaked hair plastered to her face. After a few seconds, she reached up with a shaking, skinny hand and pulled it aside, making it a little easier to breathe and possible to peek through the strands.

She was in a large room. It was full of holes, each one filled with water just like hers. She let her eyes wander across them for a few moments, wary and confused, and then, shaking with cold and still coughing, she hauled herself out of the hole and lay on the edge, gasping. Then she pushed herself up, eyes watering, and crawled over to the next hole over. That done, she leaned over, peering at the inside.

At the bottom was a boy, curled up, surrounded by a drifting swirl of long hair just like hers – navy blue, she thought it was. Was the boy dead? No, he couldn’t be. She had just crawled out of a hole just like it, and she wasn’t dead.

That decided, she let herself collapse beside it, panting, soaking wet and shivering.

Where was she? What was happening? Why was it so _cold?_

Who was she?

She didn’t know how long she lay there before a clatter made her look up. She took a deep breath, let it out in a bitten-off whimper, and tilted her head up just enough to peer at the blond man through half-dried hair.

“Alma,” the man breathed. His eyes were wide with shock, and a clipboard lay at his feet, abandoned.

She whimpered again, soft and breathless. She wanted to get up, to go to him and ask him what was going on, but it hurt to move. It was cold in here.

It didn’t matter, regardless; he hurried over to her, nearly tripping over himself in his haste. By the time he’d reached her, she’d successfully pushed herself up, and tilted her head back to look at him as he dropped down in front of her, wonder coming over his face.

She stared up at him, licked her lips, and whispered,

“Who are you?”

The man smiled, and she saw tears beading at the corners of his eyes. Why? Why was he crying? She reached out, fingers brushing his cheek.

“I’m Edgar Chan,” he told her quietly, taking her hand and pushing it back to her gently. “I work in this lab.”

_Lab?_

“Who am I?” she asked instead, keeping her eyes on his. She watched the smile slide off his face.

“You’re Alma Karma,” he answered, standing up. He reached down, taking her hand again, and hauled her up hard enough to make her stumble and fall against him. “And you’re the first one to wake up.” He smiled, but it was strange this time, she noted. “Welcome to Lab 5, Alma.”

Oh.


End file.
